


The Orange Bottle Exchange

by le_chat_vilain



Series: Gangs of Middle Earth [2]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Addiction, Angst, Drug Use, Gangs of Middle Earth, Gen, Modern AU, Suicide mention, The Hobbit - Freeform, death mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-15
Updated: 2015-04-15
Packaged: 2018-03-23 02:50:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3751711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/le_chat_vilain/pseuds/le_chat_vilain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elrond meets with an old friend to share a piece of information that could very well start a war.<br/>[Trigger Warning: death mention, drug abuse, coarse language]</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Orange Bottle Exchange

The storm clouds were slowly gathering, adding the distinct smell of impending weather to the strong odor of seagulls, salt, and tanker fuel that engulfed his nostrils. It was quite fitting he thought, given the shit storm he was undoubtedly about to start. He knew he shouldn’t be doing this, but his history with Thranduil was as complex as it was long. In spite of how incredibly different their lives had turned out, he still thought of him as a brother, and Elrond’s loyalty to family superseded any he had to this skid mark of a city.

 

They had been boys when they first met. Young, innocent, uncorrupted by the accursed darkness of Eryn Vorn. Of course, their lives had been mapped out for them, but they didn’t know that. They were just two lads who happened to show up to the same basketball court one day. One the son of the district attorney, the other the son of a crime boss. They should have been natural enemies, but much to their fathers’ chagrin, they remained friends. They had seen each other through all manner of crises, from school stress to dead wives and everything in between. To each other, they never seemed to stop being those two kids shooting hoops.

 

The docks were deserted as he had expected they would be given the race that was about to run. All the workers were probably crowded around a television or radio somewhere, betting stubs in hand and hope in their hearts. Across town, the Sons of Durin - and likely young Bilbo Baggins - were holed up in their basement, raking in the cash from all the races they had no doubt fixed. Removing his hand from the pocket of his charcoal grey overcoat, Elrond glanced at his watch: 1.59pm. Any minute now. At that moment he heard the hum of a powerful engine and the crunch of gravel as the sleek back Lamborghini came to a screeching halt beside his Mercedes.

 

_On time, as always._

 

Thranduil Oropherion emerged from the driver’s seat, and casually strolled over to stand by his boyhood friend. In typical Thranduil style, he was impeccably dressed. A slim cut black suit, black shirt sans tie, patent Beatle boots, and a leather palecot overcoat, unbuttoned and collar popped, of course. Wayfarers completed the ensemble along with the excessive number of flashy rings he always insisted on wearing. He looked every piece the clever, shady, dangerous bastard he really was.

 

“Nice of you to ensure discretion was a priority,” Elrond remarked. Why he thought the man would even think to be in the slightest bit cautious he didn’t know; it went against everything he knew about him.

 

“What was it Downey Jr. said in that Sherlock Holmes film…ah that’s right ‘it’s so overt, it’s covert’,” Thranduil replied, lighting an equally stylish black cigarette. “Besides, you were the one who wanted to meet. Strange hour too for someone so concerned about being seen in my scandalous company. 2pm on a Thursday, I mean really, mate?”

 

“Yes well, we’re here now.” It was true, Elrond was the one who had summoned him here, risking committing career suicide if anyone happened to see them right now.

 

“You don’t say...so what is this urgent matter that just could not wait a second longer?”

 

“The Erebor,” Elrond stated. He knew the significance of the name would not be lost on Thranduil.

 

“They’ve found a way to get it back?” Thranduil asked trying to hide the tension in his voice; he probably would have succeeded had he been hiding it from anyone else.

 

“A burglar. You hear about that kid who knocked over just about every jeweler in town? Well the priest got a whiff of him and that was that. Had him in my office within hours of the arrest,” he explained. “I couldn’t have said no, typical Grey, he’s right as always. If anyone can get into that casino it’s this guy. The Dragon hasn’t been heard from in years, for all we know he’s dead in there. Grey thinks if the Baggins kid can get the Durins back into The Erebor, we can revive The Dales.”

 

Thranduil stared silently out into the harbor, jaw clenched, tossing a silver pillbox up and down in one hand. He clicked it open and disposed of his cigarette butt in it before returning it to his pocket and sighing.

 

“Bastard is bloody right, it would save The Dales,” he said, turning to look at Elrond after having apparently done the math in his own mind and working out every possible outcome, as he always did. He surely would have worked out the perks that such a revival would also have for his empire. “Alright, so why tell me?”

 

“I know what’s in that vault, Thranduil,” Elrond said, his tone heavy and his face filled with pity and sadness for the man beside him, “I know what it means to you.”

 

Thranduil nodded slowly, turning back to face the water.

 

“You understand I can’t get involved, I just thought you ought to know,” Elrond continued. “Perhaps if you strike a deal with them, offer to help or something they might see fit to give it back as a fee.”

 

“But you already are,” Thranduil stated with a click of his tongue. “and you and I both know it won’t be that simple. Those boys don’t forget and they sure as shit don’t forgive. It’s gonna be messy and you know it.”

 

It was true, all of it. He was involved by sheer virtue of the fact he was here, and the Sons of Durin hated Thranduil with a passion. It was a feud that went back twenty years to when Smaug Gould had first set his sights on The Erebor. Even if Thranduil chose to try for peace first, there was only one man in this city more stubborn than he was, and that was Thorin Oakenshield, and on top of it he lacked Thranduil’s patience for diplomacy.

 

“Well I can’t get any more involved, so can you at least try to make as little paperwork for me as possible?” Elrond proposed. “You know I do my best to keep your people on the streets and not behind bars, but there is only so much I can do without raising suspicion.”

 

“I’ll try, no promises though.”

 

“There never is with you.”

 

The gangster chuckled softly and they turned to face each other.

 

“You know me too well, I think,” he said, before procuring a small orange canister from his pocket. “Never forget though, that I know you too.”

 

Thranduil opened Elrond’s coat and slipped the canister inside the breast pocket with a wink. Though they loved each other like brothers, there was no mistaking the threat in his words. Patting the pocket from the outside and shooting the DA a look of pure warning, he sauntered back towards the humming engine of the sports car, folded his tall frame into the driver’s seat, and took off.

 

As the deep rumble of the Lamborghini’s engine grew fainter, Elrond heaved a sigh and fished the orange pill bottle from his pocket. He popped the lid and procured the note from inside:

 

_E -_

_These are 80mg, not the usual 60mg. Be careful._

_\- T_

 

Scrunching the paper up, he threw it into the harbor, before making back towards his car. He slunk into the driver’s seat and immediately took one of the round green pills. The physical pain had stopped long ago, save for on the coldest of winter nights, but the need for the pills was ever present. His hands shook as he replaced the lid on the bottle and stowed it back in his coat pocket.

 

Many times he had tried to break free of the chains that little orange bottle bound him in, but each time he had failed. For decades he had been beholden to its sway, and for decades Thranduil had been the only one who knew. At one point he had even tried to help Elrond get clean. Since that failure in rehabilitation science, they had struck a deal. Thranduil kept that little orange bottle from hitting empty, and in exchange Elrond would do his best to go lightly on Thranduil’s people should any of them have charges laid against them. It wasn’t noble, but as far as Elrond was concerned it was necessary. Life without the pills, with the memories and the specters of years past haunting every moment of his existence, that was simply not an option.

 

It had been when he first was appointed district attorney that it had happened, the youngest DA in Eryn Vorn’s history. Thranduil warned him of growing tension on the streets, and that some factions wished to send their new DA a strong message. Elrond had ignored his warnings, as young men often do, not considering that it wouldn’t be him who they would directly go after. He was newly wed at the time, and the event had been all over the society pages, as these things tend to be when one marries the mayor’s daughter.

 

Celebrían had been jogging in the park when they took her. After three days, when hope was nearly all lost, they found her imprisoned in an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of Mordor, beaten and bloody but thankfully still alive. Elrond had ensured justice was swift and brutal on her abductors, but she was never the same again. She went about her days thereafter in a haze, as though she was simply going through the motions. She would smile without really smiling, laugh without really laughing, be in a room without ever being present. The only thing that seemed real were her tears; when she cried she cried for the whole world.

 

It was not long after their daughter was born that he truly noticed it, and of course by then it was too late. One night he came home to find Arwen playing in the living room with her toys, and Celebrían laying beautiful and lifeless in the bathtub, empty bottle of wine and empty orange canister on the floor beside. She had looked so peaceful, long sunny hair falling over the back of the claw footed tub in waves, lips red with her favourite shade, and a note for him resting on her heart:

 

_My Elrond,_

 

_I’m sorry. I love you dearly but I can’t do this anymore. I can’t live my life like this, without feeling anything real like I used to. I look at Arwen and I know I should feel an overwhelming surge of motherly love, but all I feel is numb. Hollow and empty. It’s all I’ve felt for a long time now, and it’s no way to live. Please be strong where I couldn’t be. Tell the boys that I love them, and Arwen, and just know that none of this is your fault, or theirs. I just don’t want to do this anymore, I can’t, I don’t want to drag you all down with me, and this is the only way I know to make it stop. Don’t worry, I’m in a better place, and thanks to you all I had the most wonderful, loving life. I’ll save you a seat at the bar, baby._

_Love always and forever,_

_Your Cele-bear_

 

Thankfully Arwen was too young to remember it, and the boys had been at Disney on Ice with their grandparents. Naturally he blamed himself. If he had just listened to Thranduil, if he had have just paid closer attention, if he’d noticed the signs he might have saved her. He went through all the stages, denial, anger, sadness, but he never really got the hang of acceptance. The media were at his back every step of the way, vultures circling around what they thought was a dying beast, just waiting for him to drop.

 

He had been administered the pills for an injury sustained some months prior during a game of golf with his father in law, and where Celeborn had turned to drink, and Galadriel to her faith, he had turned to that little orange bottle. Then, when his doctor eventually refused him, he turned to his old friend.

 

As he stared out the windshield listlessly, he felt the slow tingle on the fringe of his consciousness as the Oxytocin melded with the store bought paracetamol and codeine already in his system. It made him feel relaxed, detached, like the Elrond who lost his wife was a different person from a different life. He didn’t feel the sorrow, he didn’t feel angry, he just felt strangely giddy, something that people just passed off as an overly positive demeanor. Occasionally he would get the munchies, but instances had been few and far between lately.

 

He looked again to his watch: 2.07pm. The dockworkers would be back out any moment. Starting the engine he turned out of the old parking lot and into the traffic that would surely be heavy all the way back to the courthouse.

 

Upon his return, his assistant Lindir advised him that there had been no messages, but that the mayor had inquired as to why he was not present at the race. Lindir had advised Galadriel that the DA had been at a specialist medical appointment, as the thought was the truth. A pang of guilt hit Elrond at how he had lied to the lad, but Lindir could not know where he had really been, none of them could. Elrond may have very well started a gang war just now, and it would not do well for the world to know about it. Much better they thought that he was sick in some way - that was a lie much easier to live with in the public eye than the truth.

 

Lindir continued to question him on the appointment and whether or not everything was okay, to which Elrond simply stated that it was a mere check in with his psychiatrist for a refill of his prescription before the good doctor took his annual leave. Nothing to be concerned about; anyone who was anybody in this city had a psychiatrist. As irritating as this interrogation was, it was exactly what made the kid an excellent assistant. His impeccable attention to detail was clearly manifested in his appearance as well as everything he did. Today he wore a spectacular navy plaid suit, with a powder blue shirt and navy bow tie. His dark brown hair was quaffed perfectly into a victory roll of sorts, and not a strand was out of place. Seemingly satisfied by the explanation, he turned on his heel and vacated Elrond’s office, hair still not budging one bit.

 

After spending the subsequent three hours engrossed in his work, he was once again roused from his trance by his fashionable assistant, who was bidding him farewell for the evening. Unable to get back into the groove of work, he too decided to call it a day, and wearily made his way home.

 

Forty-five minutes later, questioning why he ever bothered driving anywhere, he opened the door to the penthouse suite that he shared with his children. Arwen was away at boarding school, and Elladan at college, but Elrohir greeted him with much excitement at the door. He had decided against joining his twin in pursuing higher tertiary education, instead opting to enlist in the military; he would be leaving for basic training next week.

 

“Ada, this came for you. Some snarky blond kid with a shitty attitude brought it by,” Elrohir explained, thrusting the wooden box into his father’s hands and staring eagerly, waiting for him to open it.

 

_For fuck’s sake Elrohir, how many times do I have to tell you not to just take things from strangers!_

 

Fortunately, he had known exactly who the mystery blond lad was, and knew that this package was thankfully safe. He slid back the lid and found nested within in a cradle of straw, a bottle of 1982 Quinta do Noval Nacional Vintage port, a bottle that would easily fetch a price of nearly a thousand dollars. Tucked in beside it was a note:

 

_Forgot to say thanks._

_\- T_

 

“Typical,” he murmured under his breath.

 

“What is?” his son questioned.

 

“Nothing son, here, chuck this in the fire will you?” Elrond handed Elrohir the note, and though clearly perplexed, he did as he was bid and tossed it into the fireplace. It was typical of Thranduil to send his own son here with a bloody gift, and one so excessive at that. Absolutely no concern for discretion at all, the only way he could have been more obvious would have been to come himself. Replacing the lid, he stowed the box beside the wine rack in the living room. Elrohir left shortly after, announcing that he had a date with some girl, and left his father to his own devices.

 

As soon as the door clicked shut, Elrond’s hand dove into his pocket and he procured the orange bottle. After popping yet another of the green pills, he stowed the rest of them under the false bottom of the drawer in his bedside table. He showered quickly and donned his cotton pajamas. Laying down on the king sized bed, he waited for the fingers of numbness to drag him away from himself once more, as the thunder finally rolled in and the tempest unleashed her fury on Eryn Vorn.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was weirdly easy and weirdly hard to write! I’ve never written Elrond before, so I’m a bit uncertain, but hopefully it all works out. Like I said on my tumblr, there is some really dark notes in there, and I did mention that this fic as a whole was not going to be for the faint hearted, so expect more of it as we progress. 
> 
> I hope the suicide note wasn’t too jarring for people, I do apologise if it was. I felt it necessary to include it though to get you to feel how he is feeling, and really understand the pain and conflict he has with regards to his addiction and that symbol of the little orange pill canister. He needs it but he hates it, not just for the hold it has over him, or the way it makes him indebted to the criminal underworld he is duty sworn to be fighting against, but for everything it has already taken from him. The way he looks at it and every time goes back to that day, that image, recalls the note and its every word. It’s ripping the wound open each time, which of course only facilitates the continuation of the addiction. Then on top of it all, like many people who abuse prescription medication, he’s a high functioning addict, so it’s very easy for him to hide, which he does because he has so much to lose should it ever come to light. The hiding increases the isolation, which increases the stress, which feeds the addiction again, and there we have that vicious cycle that is this cruel disease.
> 
>  
> 
> The song I had on repeat for this is one I’ve used before but it’s just so perfect that I couldn’t not, and is of course Red Right Hand by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds.
> 
> As always, thanks to tumblr user nuggles for the artwork that started it all!
> 
> You can also view the series on my tumblr.


End file.
